


Harry McQueen

by Cruel_Irony



Category: Hollyoaks
Genre: Adoption, Angst, Assault, Bad Parenting, Breda McQueen's Surprisingly Good Parenting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Killer McQueen, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Murder, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Serial Killers, Tony Hutchinson's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-22 05:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cruel_Irony/pseuds/Cruel_Irony
Summary: Harry didn't like remembering his birth mother. Things were blurry and spotted but he knew the important things. the way she shouted and hurt him, and how much he didn't miss her. Why would he need to, when he had such an amazing mum without her? Breda McQueen was the best mum he could have asked for and nothing was going to change that.AKAIf Breda McQueen adopted young Harry Thompson.
Relationships: James Nightingale/Harry Thompson, Ste Hay/Harry Thompson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 68





	1. Breda's Little Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: This chapter contains implied child abuse, murder, the disposal of a human body and themes of childhood self-harm. Most of it is tame and I haven't gone into graphic detail of any of it, but do not read if you think it will be triggering.

It was twilight in the park as Breda McQueen made her way home from work. The little tikes had been tucked into bed by their father and sung to sleep by their mother while Breda tidied up the mess of the day. While Breda took pride in her God-given duty, she did enjoy seeing the happy families; it gave her faith that not everything was as bleak as it may appear. She was also relieved not to have to kill Mr Walker - she was so far behind on her knitting that she hadn’t even thought of starting his effigy, and now she didn’t have to. Perhaps, once she arrived home, she could finish the cardigans she was making for her grandsons.

It wasn’t a long walk home, and Breda allowed the cool air to clear her mind. With her trusty screwdriver tucked into the pocket of her handbag, she was prepared for any would-be muggers, so lingered in the park. It was a beautiful park, complete with towering trees and blooming flowers and a large playground that was often bustling with children of all ages. But at this time, with the little kiddies all cosy in bed, or tucking into supper with their families, it was serene and empty. Which was why Breda didn’t expect to see a small boy sat on the swings, his skinny legs hanging limp in the air below him.

All of a sudden, Breda was on alert. She couldn’t see an adult in sight, and what kind of despicable parent let a boy not much older than her own grandchildren play in a park late at night. Did they not know of the thieves and murders that preyed on young boys? She could only imagine the terrible things that would cause this. The screwdriver in her bag began to grow heavy.

She quickened her step, but not so much as to alarm the child. She came closer and the boy’s hair began to shine a wondrous gold. Catching her breath, she stopped and stared at the boy. She took in the halo around his head, so much like the stained glass windows at her Church and the bright illustrations of her mother’s Bible, and his shoulders that bowed against some unseen weight and had never seen such a holy sight.

The boy didn’t look up as she came closer, not until she knelt down in the dirt before him did he register her presence. He flinched, coming back to himself and refocusing his eyes. He immediately cringed away and Breda was relieved he had at leats been taught about stranger danger.

“It’s alright, little one.” She said, digging around in he bag. She knew she had some somewhere. “My name’s Breda, but you can call me Nana Breda if you like. I’m a nanny - do you know what that means?”

The boy hesitated then swallowed before answering. “You look after kids.” His wariness seemed to fade slightly in the knowledge of her job.

Breda grinned at him, and finally produced the lollipop from her bag. “That’s right. Have a sweetie. It’s cherry flavoured.”

“Thank you, Miss.” Breda raised a brow and he corrected himself, “Nana Breda.” She smiled and handed it into his shaking fingers.

It was then that she saw them and if she had needed any further indication that this child was special, that would have been it. Nestled in the palms of his fragile hands were circles of rich, royal purple. This boy was blessed - Breda saw it. His delicate features, his politeness an his strength in the face of obvious adversity. This boy was God’s gift to her and she would do right by him.

“What’s your name?”

“Harry.”

“How did you get these, Harry?” Breda reached for his hands, and gently stroked the marks, feeling the heat and pulse of blood just underneath the skin. When Harry didn’t respond immediately, Breda tore herself away from her fascination to look at him. he was staring morosely at his lap, a frown tucking at those cute little lips. “Whatever it is, maybe I can help.”

“I need to be punished.”

Breda’s heart stopped. She had to restrain herself from hunting down whoever hurt him and gutting them like the weak pigs they are. The child came first, she reminded herself, she had to make sure he was alright before doing anything rash.

“What do you mean? Why do you need to be punished?”

“I’m bad. When I’m bad mum gets angry, but then she punishes me and she’s happy again. I just want my mum to be happy again.” The words are said with a childlike simplicity that hardens Breda’s resolve. It’s as if it is a fact of the world that this child must suffer for his mother to be happy. “I’m bad a lot. I thought, if I do it myself mum will be happier.”

“No.” Breda’s intensity startled Harry, but she takes hold of his wrists, gently, like holding a baby bird, and he stills. “You are not bad. You could never do anything bad, and you don’t deserve to be punished.” Harry shakes his head furiously, his halo trembling. “Yes, Harry,” Breda said firmly, “you are not the bad one. Your mum is the sinner. And sinner’s always get punished in the end.”

She could tell Harry wasn’t understanding it all yet, but with time Breda was sure she could make him know his true worth. What a blessing she had been given, a strong child filled with such selfless innocence. She would nurture him, raise him right, and protect him from any and all harm. Breda made the sign of the cross as she swore this.

Still holding on to Harry’s hands, Breda stood up. “Why don’t I take you home, Harry? It’s getting late and a growing boy like you needs rest.”

Harry stood and easily followed Breda out of the park. He gripped Breda’s hand tightly - not tight enough to hurt her, but tight enough for her to know how much he craved even a simple touch like this. But that didn’t matter anymore, he would be showered with hugs and kisses and affection for the rest of his life if Breda had her way. They walked in silence for a while, basking in the stillness of the night. Breda swung their hands in exaggerated arcs, up and down, pulling on Harry’s arm enough to make him laugh - a sweet, angelic giggle like the ringing of a bell.

Harry lead the way to his home, a flat in the middle of a council estate, but the closer they got the more nervous he got. When they were only a few feet from the door, Harry stopped. Breda knelt down in front of him, waiting for him to be ready to talk.

“I don’t know if she’ll want me home yet.” He finally offers, wringing his hands together and Breda sees how he gave himself those bruises; he pressed his thumbs deep into the palm of his hands in what probably started as an anxious tick when facing his mother but soon turned into a way to bring himself pain when he thought he deserved it. Carefully, wary of scaring him, Breda takes his hands and rubs soothing circles around his bruises. It works as she hoped, regulating his breathing and easing the pain of the bruises, grounding the boy with a loving touch. Tears shine in Harry’s eyes but he blinks them away before they can fall.

“Don’t worry, little one. I’ll take care of your mother. Let’s just get you to bed.” Breda stood and took the final steps to the door, knocking sharply.

It took a few moments for the door to be opened by a petite blonde woman, who barely spared a glance at her son before grabbing his shoulder and hauling him inside, but only a second for Breda to be thoroughly unimpressed with her. While Harry looked to be undernourished and wearing clothes that had clearly had previous owners, this woman looked after herself very well. Her hair hung in sleek curtains around her face, which had a bright and healthy glow. Her clothes were sharp, clean and on trend, and she even wore heels indoors. In Breda’s opinion she looked more like a Real Housewife of Chester than a council estate mum.

“Thanks for bringing him back, the little monster has a angsty habit of running off all the time.” Harry’s mum threw a sharp look back at her son, who curls in on himself and shuffles further into the flat. When she looked back at Breda, she’s flashing an award winning smile again. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t do it again.”

Cold dread coiled in Breda’s stomach. She knows what that is code for and she cannot stand for it.

“Oh, he’s no trouble, a little angel, really. You know, you look like a very busy woman, Mrs - ?”

“Thompson. Tessa Thompson, and it’s Miss.” She snapped, her grip on the front door tightening. Her demeanour did not faze Breda, who only nodded and continued.

“Of course. You look like a very busy woman, Miss Thompson, and I’m a nanny by trade.” Breda pulled one of her business cards out of her handbag and handed it over. “Perhaps I could offer my services to look after Harry, make sure he doesn’t run off or misbehave? I have over thirty years of experience with children.”

Tessa didn’t look at the card before rebuffing Breda’s offer and attempting to close to door. Breda was not about to let a little boy be hurt when she could stop it, so she refused to hesitate as she whipped out her screwdriver and plunged it between Tessa Thompson’s ribs. It is with skill and practice that Breda knew she had hit vital organs on her first try. She could only hope Harry was safely in his room.

Breda stepped into the apartment, catching Tessa as she falls, blood trickling between her lips and down her chin and onto her crisp white blouse, and slammed the door behind her. Drawing on reserves of strength she didn’t know she had, Breda dragged the woman to the bathroom, out of sight of any children. After checking herself over in the mirror for any blood, Breda headed out to find Harry.

He’d tucked himself into the corner of what must be his bedroom, though it lacks the mountains of toys she has come to associate with a kid’s room, but he relaxed somewhat when he saw Breda instead of his mother, though he kept looking behind her in search of Tessa. Breda approached him like he is a wild animal and held out her hands, gladdened when Harry immediately places his hands in hers.

“Do you have a father, Harry?” She asked, knowing that the answer would likely be no and she wouldn’t have to worry about stupid men tracking them down.

Surprisingly, Harry teared up at that, squeezing Breda’s hands in lieu of his own. “He doesn’t want me. Mum took me to meet him a few weeks ago but he didn’t want me. Mum says it’s because I’m bad and he knew it.”

If only Harry knew the man’s name and he would be gone in an instant. But, alas, Breda couldn’t exact revenge for this particular slight. She reached out and enveloped Harry in a hug, the first of many, and slowly stroked his golden hair. “You are not bad, your father is blind and ignorant. He couldn’t see what a gift you are.” Breda paused, thinking how best to go about this. “Have you ever had a sleepover, Harry?” The boy looked up at her and shook his head, but there was a glimmer behind his eyes that told her how much he had wanted one. “Well, we’re going to have a sleepover. I asked your mum and she agreed that you can spend a few nights with me. Won’t that be nice?” Harry nodded. “Can you pack your things up for me, some clothes and your favourite toys, while I get some of the other essentials from your mum?” Harry nodded again, eagerly, and when Breda released him he jumped up to start packing things into his school bag.

Trusting that Harry would be busy choosing his clothes - though Breda wouldn’t waste any time in getting new ones for him - she headed to find the relevant birth certificates, passports and Little Red Book. It’s no good taking a child if you don’t have the paperwork. She staged the scene, too, to look like Tessa had eloped on some world tour with her young son. Taking Tessa’s keys Breda went to take Harry to the car.

“Are you ready?”

Harry nodded. His backpack was stuffed with clothes, the zip threatened to burst at the seams, and in his other hand he held tight to teddy bear, worn and falling to pieces but clearly much loved. Breda took the bag from him and held on to his now free hand. She was glad Harry did not linger to take one last look at his home. If she had her way, he would soon forget all the terrible things that had happened there.

Breda loaded Harry into Tessa’s car, and was glad he didn’t question why she had the keys to it, then told him she had forgotten something in the flat and she would only be a minute. Rushing back, Breda improvised a body bag with bin liners and duct tape found underneath the kitchen sink. Moving the body was hard, but cleaning up the blood took only a minute with Breda’s experience. Soon after she was looking up the flat and carrying Tessa’s body to the car. Luckily no one was around to question her. And, knowing council estates, she had hope that the CCTV cameras were damaged or fake.

Harry was none the wiser when Breda slid into the driver’s seat. He simply smiled sweetly, excited for his sleepover, and hugged his teddy to his chest. Starting the car, Breda knew she couldn’t stay at her rented flat for much longer and she’d have to move back to the farm in order to raise Harry away from his past life, but it wasn’t much of a loss. This child was a blessing, and one she intended to make the most of.

There was a quiet gurgle from the backseat and Breda looked in the rearview mirror quick enough to see Harry’s sheepish look. Oh, she thought, he must be starving. 

“Soon, my little angel. I’ll make you a big supper when we get home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, Breda's religious mania is coming into play and she thinks Harry has a halo and that his bruises are the stigmata (the wounds of Jesus).
> 
> Little Red Book = a red book you are given when you have a kid and it records their height and weight as they grow and you take it to all their doctor's appointments and check-ups, United Kingdom reference


	2. The Homeland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains brief mentions of self-harm and mental health issues

Harry hated flying. The stale, recycled air, the depressing selection of in-flight movies, the extortionate price of snacks, and, of course, the overwhelming claustrophobia of a hundred people crammed into a metal box in the sky, all served to set Harry’s teeth on edge. In an ideal world it teleportation would have been invented and he wouldn’t be subjected to an eight hour direct flight from Dubai to Manchester, but, alas, it was not to be. Harry would simplify have to put up with one of the only downsides to modelling around the world.

Stepping off the plane and grateful to have survived the torture of flying, Harry took a deep breath of frigid British air, the tantalising promise of rain heavy on his tongue. It was good to be back, Harry thought, he had missed his family and he was sure Goldie had a veritable trove of gossip to share with him - brief mention was made of child abduction, murder and a rather disastrous wedding on the phone. It was rather comical the amount of drama the McQueen family attracted like magnets but Harry had never known a day when one member of the family wasn’t feuding with the other, or threatening locals, or doing something even slightly shady. It was just the way they were - they thrived on the drama. Though Harry’s and his mum had lived away from the McQueen homeland in Hollyoaks, they had been unable to escape the dramatics over the years.

Harry breezed through customs and picked up his mum’s favourite liquorice, despite never knowing how she could stand to eat the things. As he was paying he remembered to snag the biggest bar of Toblerone he could find, knowing that if he was seeing the cousins he’d best bring something to thank them for their hospitality.

Stifling a yawn, Harry made his way out of the airport and immediately spotted his mum’s van - it was hard not to with that massive teddy bear on the top. Breda was stood by the van, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet like an excitable puppy. The grin she gave when she spotted her youngest child was brighter than the sun and she raced towards him with the power of a tank to wrap him up in her arms.

“Oh, my little angel, I’ve missed you so much.” She cried, tucking Harry’s head onto her shoulder.

“I missed you too, mum.” Harry gave her a tight squeeze. He really has missed her, the warmth of her hugs, the smell of her perfume, the effortlessness of her affection that soothes his inner child. Though he’s past the point of being a teenager, he’s not ashamed to admit he still misses his mum.

Breda asked, still holding on to her youngest. “How was your flight? Did you manage to sleep? I know you hate it.”

“No worse than usual. I’ll need to sleep off the jet lag when we get home.” Harry answered.

“Aww, sweetheart, don’t worry, if you fall asleep on the way home I won’t wake you. Now,” said Breda, pulling away, “let’s be on our way before the airport charges me my pension.”

Harry dumped his bags in the back then slid into the passenger seat. Breda started the car and tried to find the exit to the car park.

“I swear, they make these things like a bloody maze just so they can charge you for the time it takes to even find the way out.” Breda complained with no real heat to the words. Harry chuckled, it was almost impossible to imagine his mum truly angry about anything.

They found the exit, swiftly paid the exorbitant fee (Breda waved away Harry’s offers to pay, or at least split the cost), then joined the motorway on the way to Hollyoaks village. 

“Mum?” Harry asked. “Explain to me again why we’re not going back to the farm?”

Harry had nothing but fond memories of Stone Mount Farm, his childhood home. His bedroom overlooked nothing but emerald fields and evergreens, football posters covered his walls and there was always an angel statue or two (courtesy of his mum) dotted about. Harry remembered playing hide and seek in the old pig pens, making gooey chocolate brownies in the kitchen, building forts in the living room. For the past few years, whenever he came back home from a job he’d always enjoyed being back in his childhood home the most. Growing up happened fast, but being back home made everything slow down and he didn’t feel like his life was racing by at the speed of light.

Breda gave Harry a sympathetic smile, reaching over to pat his knee. “I know you love it there, Harry, but it’s been very lonely without you. And what with Sylvester coming out of prison and Goldie and her boys staying in Hollyoaks with the rest of the cousins, I felt it was the right time for all the family to be together again. Plus, it’s Mercedes’ wedding soon - you missed Cleo’s, though it didn’t really end well, so maybe that was for the best - and by the sounds of it it’s gonna be an expensive affair.”

“How many weddings has Mercy had now? I think I’ve lost track.” Harry knew his cousin had a dismal track record when it came to weddings: affairs, affairs with the groom’s father, eventual murder, no-shows; it was clear to Harry that this one would be no different. His cousin just wasn’t made for lasting marriages.

Breda smiles at Harry, as if knowing exactly what he was thinking. “This will be the sixth wedding.”

“Wanna take bets on what happens? Five quid says someone gets punched.”

Breda gasped, lightly slapping Harry on the knee. “Good Christians don’t gamble, Harry.” She scolded. “And it’s cruel to joke about your cousin’s misfortune.”

Head bowed and fighting the twinge of shame inside, Harry apologised to his mother, his excitement at being home dampened somewhat.

“My little angel, it’s okay. Everyone makes mistakes, and God forgives.” Breda reached over to hold Harry’s hand, not letting go even as Harry tried to take his hand back. 

“Mum, you need to change gear.” Harry warned, but his mum was unfazed.

“You do it for me, sweetheart.”

With the hand not held captive by his mum, Harry changed gear and flicked the indicators on as Breda made to change lanes and exit the motorway.

“You’re gonna have to let go eventually. I’m pretty sure this is illegal.”

“Well, it’s not in the Bible, and I’m not letting go until you’re alright.”

Harry sighed, knowing exactly what his mum was doing. As an adult with the benefit of hindsight, Harry knows what a thin line it was his mum had walked while raising him. She couldn’t let Harry get away with everything, lest he turn into a spoiled brat or a sociopathic criminal, but there was always a risk of him internalising the reprimands and hurting himself. He did it a lot as a kid, even when his mum was angry at someone else, he saw the tightness around her eyes and the way she ground her teeth and assumed it was his fault. Most of the time now he was okay. A relapse here or there, but mostly he was doing okay. His mother’s care, even now, when he was nearing his twenty-first birthday, was appreciated.

Harry smiled softly at his mum, squeezing her hand. “I’m fine, mum. Promise. I have never and will never gamble and I won’t be cruel to my cousins. And I’m not going to hurt myself.” Breda gave his hand a squeeze in return. “Now will you let go and drive properly.”

Breda let go, finally, and put her full attention into driving to Hollyoaks. Harry turned on the radio, not even thinking of changing the channel when traditional hymns began to play. He’d grown up with this music playing all round the house and while in other situations he would rather have shitty pop songs burning his ear drums, he was content to listen to his mum sing along, even joining in himself. The rest of the journey passed quickly, though Harry didn’t recognise many of the local landmarks, having only been to Hollyoaks village a couple of times over the years.

Harry stifled a yawn as he got out of the van, looking up at the small, shabby house that somehow managed to house the McQueens at a time. When he was younger he used to think it must be TARDIS, bigger on the inside than it was on the outside, and for a while he’d thought Nana must have been a Time Lord, that was until he realised there was a complicated rotation and bed-sharing situation that meant no one had to sleep on the sofa. Despite preferring the quiet farm he’d grown up on, Harry couldn’t help the smile on his face as he look at McQueen headquarters.

As Harry helped his mum with the bags, McQueens started to pour from the house.

First came Nana, her silver hair curled to perfection, pink lipstick freshly applied. “Harry!” She exclaimed, rushing at him with all the speed of a sixty year old woman. Harry met her half way and wrapped her up in a hug. “Oh, how you’ve grown. And got a tan! And I know that definitely didn’t come from a bottle.” Nana went so far as to pinch his cheeks like a proper grandma, despite technically being his great-aunt. He was’t even sure why he called her Nana, but she refused to let him call her Marlena.

“Oi! Let the rest of us get a look at him!” Harry could recognise his sister’s voice anywhere, and he quickly disentangled himself from Nana to prepare for Goldie’s attack. And what an attack it was. She grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him to her like he weighed nothing. Harry may have been only a few years older than her children, and he and Goldie may not have grown up together, but he remembered watching Real Housewives and Bargain Hunt with her, popcorn between them and read to roots whatever crap came on screen. She used to threaten to deck his childhood bullies, and threaten to bake cakes for the school’s charity bake sale. She helped him dress for his first date and reassured him when the fling ended a couple of days later. Oh, how he missed her.

“Nice to see you again, sis.” Harry managed to croak out. One thing he didn’t miss were her bone-crushing hugs. Goldie was scrappy and strong for a woman who never did her own heavy lifting.

“That’s enough, Goldie, let the boy breathe.” Scolded Breda. Reluctantly, Goldie let Harry go but it wasn’t long before he was greeting Myra, and her new/old partner Sally, and Cleo, who Harry was happy to see was recovering from her wedding day.

“It’s been months since I last seen him, I need to get me hugs in!” Harry heard his sister complain from behind him.

“Well you’ve got plenty of time for that. He’s not going away for a while yet, are you, love?”

“No, mum. Only UK jobs for a while.” Harry concurred. 

“I’ve got so much goss to tell you, bruv, and you need to tell me about all the rich men you met in Dubai. Wiling to set any of them up with your big sister?”

“Never change, Goldie. Though I see your still sticking with the red hair. It’s a bold choice.”

Goldie took a swipe at Harry, her lethal talons close to gouging his eye out, but she was fighting a fond smile. “What is it with my brothers taking the piss out of my weave? It’s classy!” With a flick of that fiery mane, she stormed back inside, heels clicking. Breda followed her inside with the bags, Nana and the others not far behind, until it was just Harry and Sylver outside.

“Hey, little brother.” Sylver broke the silence, swinging his arms like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “This is our first proper meeting outside of a prison visiting room. You’re a lot shorter than I remember.”

“Ha ha.” Harry deadpanned, but he couldn’t keep the smile of his face. “Come on and give me a hug, you mountain.” Sylver grinned like a puppy and swept Harry up in a hug almost as bone-crushing as Goldie’s. Harry could have sworn his feet left the ground. When his feet finally touched ground again, it took a moment to reorientate himself. “It’s good to have you back, big brother.”

“Likewise. Nana’s right about that tan, though. It might be the only real one in the house.” Sylver slung his arm around harry’s shoulders as they headed inside. Harry couldn’t wait to get inside, eat some good home cooked food and sleep for twenty-six hours until jet lag was a distant memory.

Inside the McQueen house was almost as he remembered it. “Has there been a fire?”

“Oh, yeah.” Myra chirped from the sofa. “Just a little one, though, no one was hurt.”

Harry plopped down on the sofa next to her. “That’s alright, then. You should probably get new wallpaper though.” Now that he was sat down, without the rumbling of an engine keeping him from getting comfortable, the time difference and the draining hours on the plane were catching up to him and he could feel his eyelids drooping.

“We’ll get round to it eventually.” Myra replied as Harry’s head slumped onto her shoulder, his breathing deepening, and sleep claimed him at last.


	3. Bad Homecomings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains non-graphic violence and assault against Harry

Harry was gently shaken awake, but he could barely keep his eyes open long enough to focus on his mum’s face in front of him. She was saying something, but his sleep frazzled brain wasn’t listening. A moment later - or was it an hour later, time’s funny when you’re half-asleep - he was being hoisted up and carried somewhere. He could only assume it was Sylver - no one else was wrong enough to carry him like a bride over a threshold. Then he was laid carefully down in a bed, his shoes slipped off and a duvet pulled up to his chin. He felt someone stroke his forehead and kiss it - he hoped that was his mum and not Sylver. Then he was left alone to sleep again.

*

The next time Harry woke was to a warm body creeping under the duvet next to him in the early evening hours. It was the gust of cold air hitting his skin that first tore him from sleep, but it was the dip of the mattress and the the grumblings of a tired woman that made the grogginess disappear.

“The fuck?” He exclaimed, recoiling away from the intruder.

“Cool it, cuz. It’s just me.” Replied a familiar voice. Harry blinked and could soon make out long hair, chiselled features and a killer pout.

“‘Cedes? What are doing?”

Mercedes rolled her eyes and started making herself comfortable in the bed next to him, and by comfortable she clear meant nearly naked. She whipped off her top and shucked her jeans, letting out a sigh of relief as she took off her bra.

She explained, as Harry looked on confused, “I had an argument with my fella so I’m kipping here. And since your mum and Nana decided to give my bed away, here we are.”

Looking around the rest of the room for the first time, Harry realised it was true. Pictures of a young Mercedes and of kids were dotted around the room. He was glad he hadn’t been forced to share with his nephews or top and tail with his brother, at least not for his first night back. But he couldn’t kick Mercy out of her old room, not when she’d had what must have been one terrible argument if it caused to her run back home with her tail between her legs instead of her fiancé doing the running.

“Fair enough,” Harry conceded, “but you’re giving me the goss in the morning.”

“Deal.”

As Mercedes settled down, Harry made himself comfortable. His mum may have taken his shoes off, but he was still fully dressed and sleeping in jeans was never comfortable. He pulled them off, dropped them over the side of the bed and tried not to let the warm air escape. After a moments deliberation, he took off his top too, leaving him in his undies and crucifix necklace.

Harry burrowed deeper into the bed, curling up and tucking the duvet under his chin. His knees hit Mercedes’ arm, and it too some shuffling until they found comfortable positions around each other. 

“Watch it, cuz, or I’ll think you’re coming on to me.” Mercy mumbled, smirking. She pressed her cold fingers to his tummy. Harry let out an undignified yelp. She laughed and moved away.

“You’re the one getting your tits out. What would your fiancé think?”

“He can think whatever he likes. He’s not my keeper.” She reported, her tone as cold as her hands. Suddenly, Harry regretted his teasing. He should’ve known better than to do so in the wake of a domestic.

“I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll work things out.”

Mercedes was silent for so long harry wondered if she’d fallen asleep that fast. But a moment later she mumbled a thank you into the pillow.

“Night, Mercedes.”

“Night, Harry.”

*

Harry should be known better than to expect a full night’s sleep without the typical McQueen drama. It just wouldn’t be a proper homecoming without it.

So he wasn’t too concerned when raised voices and the thunder of boots on the stairs penetrated the haze of sleep. He assumed Goldie used Nana’s top as a dish rag, or maybe Myra had eaten the last of the good biccies. In this family it could be anything.

He opened his eyes, this time to sunlight shining offensively through the curtains, and rolled onto his back, the duvet slipping down to his hips, as the door to the bedroom was flung open. And that was when it all went to shit.

A man Harry didn’t recognise stood in the doorway, chest heaving and fists clenched at his side, like a bull at Pamplona. His eyes flicked from Harry, his bare chest and the waistband of his boxers, to Mercedes, her sleep mussed hair and similarly naked body. Time stood still as the man took it all in. His nostrils flared. A vein pulsed in his temple.

“Morning?” Harry asked, sitting up slowly.

Before Harry could even push away the duvet, the man lunged and grabbed hold of Harry’s bicep. He pulled Harry from the bed, pausing briefly to grab Harry’s clothes from the floor, and began to drag him out of the room. Harry cried out, making a swipe for the bedpost but his nails barely scratched the veneer before he was being pulled off. The man was strong, much stronger than Harry, despite the weights he lifted at the gym and the healthy, balanced diet he was on. Harry’s only choice was to scream, and scream he did.

“Oi! Get off me, let me go! What the fuck are you doing?” It wasn’t long before the McQueen clan was drawn to the noise like moths to a flame, and they were outraged. Hands reached for Harry, trying to pry him from the man’s grip, but he was yanked swiftly away and the man ploughed through the crowd like they were nothing to him.

Behind them, finally emerging from the bedroom with a shirt haphazardly donned to cover herself, Mercedes shouted, “Russ, stop!” And chased after them. But her words were as useless as all the others.

The man - Russ - continued to drag his victim down the stairs. There was no chance for Harry to get his feet under him, nor could he get the leverage to pull himself away. Russ, who was deathly silent amid the screeches of the McQueen women around them, shook Harry like a rag doll. Suddenly, Harry remembered the last time he had felt so helpless and weak. His ankles rubbed against the carpet and smacked against the steps, he felt like his shoulder was going to tear right from the socket. With his mind stuck reliving the past, Harry resorted to the only strategy he knew to work. He let his body go as limp as he could and he stopped complaining. Sometimes it was better to let things run their course.

Russ flung open the front door, not caring that Harry’s feet were caught on the threshold and cut by the sharp metal. He tossed Harry out on to the patio like yesterday’s rubbish.

Harry tried to put his hands out to catch his fall, but he was only partly successful. His shoulder hit the ground first, and the side of his arm, and he knew his skin would be torn up with scratches and gravel when he skidded a little. His palm, too, was not spared. In fact, his whole body felt battered and bloody. Then his jeans hit his face, the buckle of his belt smacking into his cheekbone, and somehow that was the worst part. Humiliation flared hot in his chest; kicked out of his own home, exposed and freezing in the open November air, his clothes thrown at him like some cheap whore. So he stayed on the floor, as Russ loomed over him, still panting while his knuckles turned white.

“You stay away, you hear!” He shouted, spitting on Harry for good measure.

“Russ!” Mercedes cried from the door, staring wide eyed at the scene in front of her. “What are you doing?” She forced her voice to be as calm as possible, wary of setting him off. The other McQueens stood behind her, torn between helping Harry and staying out of Russ’ war path.

But her attempts were in vain because he rounded on her quickly. “I’m doing what you can’t seem to do! You can’t resist a pretty face can you? You just can’t be loyal or even faithful for one second of your life, Mercedes! I thought I could trust you! I thought we’d sorted everything out after the last time.” Russ took a deep breath, letting go of a little bit of his rage.

Goldie and Sylver seized the opportunity and hurried to Harry’s side, helping him to sit up and assess his injuries. They lifted him up, supporting him when his ankle refused to hold his weight. It’s not the situation he would like his siblings to see him in - there’s an element of pity and shame floating around - but he’s grateful for their help. As a kid, he’d longed for the protective older brother or sister that would patch him up and stand in the way of any hurt. The dagger-like glares they were shooting at Russ’ back were also doing wonders for his pride.

“You know I came here to make it up to you, I had this big apology planned, but I come here and find you sleeping with another man and your own family don’t even seem surprised. I don’t even know why I am. All you ever do is lie and cheat.” Russ accused, but he sounded more tired than angry. Harry could guess that this wasn’t the first time they’d argued about affairs.

Despite the earnest expression on Russ’ face, Mercedes was cold as steel, her own anger seething below the surface. “If you gave us a chance to explain instead of attacking Harry like he were a fucking serial killer, then you’d know that there is no way in Hell that I’d sleep with him. Besides, you are the one I want - or you were.” Mercedes looks him up and down like he’s a piece of meat she finds utterly unappealing, then turns to the three siblings. “Bring him in, I’ll get the first aid kit.”

Goldie shoulder checked Russ as she passes but she doesn’t stray from Harry side to give him a kick in the shins like Harry knows she wants to. Myra ushered them inside and even plumped up a cushion for him to lean back on. He soaked up her motherly concern like a sponge, knowing his own mother would be overwhelmingly overbearing were she not out food shopping.

Russ followed them into the house, staring perplexed as Mercedes handed Sylver the first aid kit and Goldie tenderly swiped away the glob of spit clinging to Harry’s cheek. “I can’t believe your helping him. He’s the one ruining our marriage before it’s even begun.” He protested.

Mercy growled, and turned sharply on her heel. Even wearing only a shirt, that wasn’t even buttoned up properly, and without make up or heels to boost her authority, she still made Russ wither with just a look. “Harry, meet Russ, my fiancé. Russ, meet Harry McQueen. He’s Breda’s youngest, and he’s just returned from Dubai. Nana gave him my bed to sleep off his jet lag in, and when I came round here I didn’t want to sleep on the sofa, so we shared. I get what it might have looked like, but you’ve jumped to so many conclusions.”

“Well, it’s not like being cousins has ever stopped you before!”

“We’re cousins, he’s fourteen years younger than me, and he’s gay.”

Usually, Harry would have a problem with his family outing him to randoms, but in this case it might have been the only thing keeping his face from meeting Russ’ fist. Besides, it did shut Russ up spectacularly. He looked at Harry questioningly, as if searching for the gay vibes.

“Gay as a rainbow, mate.” Harry managed to say, despite the sudden exhaustion weighing him down. He wanted to sleep, even more than he had when he was jet lagged. There was no energy to talk much, or even help his siblings as they wiped his cuts with antiseptic, picked pieces of gravel out of his palms with tweezers and held bags of peas over his bruises.

“Look, mate, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were g—“

“Oi!” Sylver snapped. “Don’t apologise because you didn’t realise he was gay, you shouldn’t have attacked him like that, end of.” Russ looked like he was about to start yelling at Sylver, clearly there was something going on between them, when Mercedes put a hand on Russ’ shoulder and pushed him back.

“Sylver’s right. Even if he were straight and into older women who happen to be his cousin, doesn’t mean you have the right to barge into his bedroom, drag him out of the house and toss him onto the patio. You could have killed him - if he hadn’t been able to catch himself, if he’d hit his head! You have got some serious making up to do.” Mercedes stepped away from her fiancé, giving him one last scornful look, and started rummaging in the washing up basket for some of Harry’s clothes.

In the judging silence, Russ seemed to realise the precarious position he was in. Almost all eyes were on him, and they were not nice. He began to fidget and look away, ashamed.

Myra took pity on him and broke the silence. “You’re lucky Breda’s not here or you’d be going up the aisle in a body bag.” She quipped, earning a rueful smile from the others. It was common knowledge how much Breda babied her youngest, hating to see him get even the smallest of scratches from tripping over. Harry remembered time when he had fallen off a swing set and scuffed his knee, and Breda had seemed like she wanted to rip the guilty swing right from its chains and hinges.

“He still might.” Replied Mercedes, ominously, handing Goldie a pair of jogging bottoms and a soft t-shirt. Harry wasn’t sure if she meant Breda or herself would be the ones responsible for the body bag.

Russ sighed, “look I’m sorry. It was wrong of me, I let my anger and paranoia take over. Harry, I’m sorry I attacked you.”

Forgiveness may be a central tenant of being a good catholic, but Harry couldn’t forgive him right then. His arms ached. Sylver was currently kneading his shoulder to see if it was dislocated. The cuts stung and he could feel the blood on his cheek. Physical wounds aside, he was shaken. He hadn’t felt so like a helpless child in a long time. Maybe, once he regained his energy and good mood, he might be able to move past this.

Russ seemed to get that because after a moment of silence he nodded and made his way to the door. As he reached for the latch, the door swung open, pushed by none other than Breda herself. She recoiled a bit, not expecting him there, but her smile was still in place. At least, it was until she looked over at her son, sat on the sofa, unable to cover his injuries in time. She stood frozen. Behind her, spurred on by Myra’s joke, Russ made his hasty exit.

“Harry?” Breda cried, letting the shopping bags fall to the floor with a thud. “Oh, my angel, you’re hurt!” She rushed over and the other McQueens parted like the Red Sea to let her pass. She fell to her knees before her youngest and reached out to carefully examine the cut on his face, the scrapes down his arm and the bruises already colouring his skin. Suddenly, her expression turned dark. “Who did this to you?” She practically growled.

Harry took his mum’s hands and moved them away from where they were cupping his face. “I’m fine. It’s just a couple of scratches. You don’t have to worry.” Though he said it, he knew she wouldn’t listen to him.

Breda frowned. “Someone made you bleed. Of course I’m going to worry - I’m your mum!”

Harry sighed. It was a lost cause to try and dissuade his mum from her motherly duties. He just squeezed her hands and smiled tiredly at her. Perhaps it would be best to tell her, get it out of the way and stop her pestering. But then she would only hunt Russ down and make him pay for what he did, and Russ didn’t deserve the verbal, and possibly physical, assault that would be. Harry was about to open his mouth and deny anything happened when Mercedes spoke.

“It were Russ. He thought Harry and I were sleeping together and he weren’t happy about it. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him before he’d dragged Harry all the way outside.”

Breda’s mouth hung open. “Russ did this?” She looked around the room as the other McQueens all nodded.

“It all happened so fast, mum.” Goldie said. She handed Harry his top so he could finish getting dressed. “It were terrifying.”

“Oh, my baby!” Breda cried, pulling harry close to her chest, cupping the back of his head and smoothing down the hair at the nape. “Are you okay?”

Harry nodded, but now that he was in his mother’s embrace, everything seemed to be catching up to him. The shock may have kept him from feeling everything as it happened, but now, with the adrenaline rush over and gone, the remembered fear was overwhelming. Russ’ attack had reminded him of his early childhood, when attacks like that were such a regular occurrence that he could keep time by them. The instinct was not fight or flight because neither got you out of it, there was only ‘let it happen and maybe it will stop sooner’. He had thought he had banished all those memories to the dark recesses of his mind where they couldn’t hurt him anymore, where he didn’t have to see them as possibilities anymore. But he’d never been attacked like that before, in the safety of his own home, by someone his family let in, in a moment where he wasn’t prepared. So, yeah, he wasn’t truly okay, but he doubted it was anything his mum could fix now. So he nodded and smiled, then said. “I am still tired though, I was kind of woken up early.” His lighthearted tone make Sylver and Goldie chuckle, but his mum saw through it, though she said nothing.

“Why don’t you head back up and kip for a bit.” Myra offered, sensing, the way all mothers could, that he needed a get-out. “When you get down, we’ll make you a proper McQueen dinner - all the trimming.”

Harry gratefully accepted. Carefully extricating himself from his family, and waving off another of his mother’s concerns, he headed back up to bed, hoping the memories of Russ’ attack wouldn’t follow him there.


	4. Happy Birthday!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains minor PTSD from the attack last chapter, and mentions of past abuse and self-harm

Harry couldn’t sleep. Harry couldn’t stay awake either. His dreams were plagued with forgotten memories and his waking moments tormented by flinches and flashbacks. It didn’t help that Russ and Mercedes made up - he performed some grand gesture that cost so much money is was bound to make a McQueen swoon - and all the wedding planning had put Harry’s ordeal to the backs of everyone’s mind.

So here he was, curled up on the sofa, blanket around his shoulders to stave off the cold, staring emptily at the wedding magazines and bouquet mockups. It will be a beautiful wedding - they’ve spent enough money to be sure of that. But Harry knew, as wonderful and perfect a day as it will be for his family, he wouldn’t get through it without flinching. He’s part of the bridal party, as the token gay, and he was the reason Mercy had a second hen do because he missed the one in Magaluf. He will have to put on a smile, endure the groom and pretend he’s not shaking inside.

Ever since Russ attacked him, despite the man’s genial attempts at friendship, Harry hasn’t been able to forget either that or his childhood. He flinches when Russ pats him on the back. He tenses when he walks past. He fights waves of nausea when he sees his healing injuries. It shouldn’t be this hard, but it is.

Harry buried his face in his knees, pushing away the thought of it. He can’t sleep for nightmares, but he’s just so tired.

“Angel?”

His mum’s sweet voice called to him from the stairs. He lifted his head, his eyes wide and teary like a little puppy. Right then, all he wanted was a hug from his mum.

“Mum.”

Breda tied her dressing gown around her and pottered over to him. “What you doing up? You should be in bed.” She sat down next to him, took one look at his face, then pulled him to her.

It was like a damn was broken inside him and all the tears he had been holding in came flooding out. Sobs wracked his body. His cheeks flushed and became blotchy. He clutched at her like a barnacle on the bottom of a ship.

“There, there. It’s okay. Mummy’s here now. Hush, shhhh.” She stroked his hair away from his face the way she knew calmed him, and she started to slowly rock them both back and forth, humming and shushing under her breath.

Harry’s cries didn’t subside immediately. It took a few moments for him to regain his normal breathing and for the tears to stop falling. But Breda didn’t press him, not until he was ready.

“I can’t get it out of my head. What Russ did and… and Tessa.” Harry buried his face in the crook of his mother’s neck. He always hated bringing up Tessa, for both of their sakes, but it was unavoidable. “I can’t sleep because all I do is play it over and over again. The way he grabbed me it was like being back there again. I thought I’d forgotten how it felt - to be that helpless, to be at the complete mercy of someone else, to be weak like that - but I do t think I’ll ever forgot. Not really. There’ll always be something to remind me. And what’s the point then? If the reminders reduce me this? I can’t sleep. But even awake it haunts me. I flinch. I look over my shoulder constantly. And I don’t know how to make it stop.” Harry voice finally failed him then and he broke down into thick, watery sobs.

“Oh, my baby.” Breda cooed, rubbing her hand through Harry’s short hair. Her other clenched tightly at the blanket over his back. Harry could sense that she was angry, and a primitive part of him told him to submit but time had taught him how to realise that she was rarely angry at him. This anger was directed at someone else - Russ and Tessa.

Harry knew his mum could be a fierce protector; he could recall over a dozen memories of her righteous fury in the blink of an eye. If he asked, she would bring her wrath down on Russ. But he couldn’t do that. Much as he might wish to be free from this torment, he couldn’t ruin another of Mercy’s wedding days.

“I should give him a piece of my mind.” Said Breda firmly.

Harry shook his head and mumbled “no.”

“For what he’s done.” Breda seemed to plead for permission. “Accusing Sylver of having an affair with Mercedes - giving him such abuse! And now this! I won’t stand for it.”

Harry pulled back to look him mum in the eye. He put his hands on her cheeks and forced her to look straight at him.

“Don’t, mum. It would ruin Mercedes’ wedding day. They love each other and they’ll make each other very happy. I just have to get past the wedding then I can see about taking a few jobs away from Hollyoaks.”

“You promised you would stay a while and be with family.”

“I’m sorry, but it might be better.”

Breda frowned, but she understood that Harry didn’t want her doing anything to the other man. After a moment, she nodded in agreement.

Changing the subject, she said, “it looks like that cut is healing well.”

Reflexively, Harry fingers went to trace the cut on his cheekbone, inflicted by the buckle on his belt when Russ had thrown them at him. It had been a scan but was now a thick pink line because he had successfully refrained from picking at it when it itched.

“Let me get the rose-hip oil and I’ll put it on for you.” She hopped up and dashed quietly up the stairs. She returned a short moment later, leaving Harry with no time for his mood to dip again.

When she settled back next to him, she was holding more than just the bottle of rose-hip oil. She had a small package wrapped in bright yellow wrapping paper, the words ‘happy birthday’ emblazoned on it in bold letters. Harry glanced at the clock on the wall and confirmed that it had indeed gone midnight.

It was his birthday. He was officially twenty-one.

“Since we’re up.” Breda explained. “But oil first.”

Harry positioned himself and held still. She poured a couple of drops into the palm of her hand. With a finger she dabbed the oil over the cut, gently massaging it in to the scar. When that was done, Harry obediently held out his forearms for his mum to rub the oil into the scars that littered the pale skin there. Small crescent moon shaped grooves ran up the inside of his arms, and long thin scratches trailed down the outside mostly hidden behind the hairs on his arms. They were old and faded almost to obscurity, but it was still nice for her to soothe them, to care for even the most damaged parts of him. With practised motion, him mum rubbed the oil over his arms.

The smell was familiar and soothing. Combined with the rhythmic motions on breads hands Harry was soon found himself drifting. Breda moves down to massage his hands, working his fingers and his palms until he was so relaxed he doubted he could hold a pencil properly.

Finally, she stopped. “You awake enough for your pressie?”

Harry nodded, grinning widely. He already knew what it would be, and he knew that she likely had a couple other presents stashed away for the morning, but it was a ritual he had enjoyed for many years.

Breda handed over the small, lumpy present and Harry truer to contain his enthusiasm as he ripped at the paper. Out from the wrappings fell a pair of socks. They were thick, fluffier than the clouds, soft as kitten fur and dyed an orange so bright it hurt. Upon closer inspection, Harry found little ears and noses among the fluff - cat socks. They were homemade - as the fluffy socks always were - which just made them all the more special.

“For your cold little toes.” Breda wriggled a finger at him and make a teasing grab for his bare toes. It was a well-known fact in their little family that Harry’s extremities were often freezing and he was known to bundle up in layers and wear gloves in May.

“Thank you, mum. These are cute.” He slipped them on and only then realised how little he had been feeling from his feet.

“Happy birthday, my little angel.”

Harry brought him mum in for a lasting hug until a yawn finally escaped him.

Breda chuckled. “Why don’t you head up to bed. Get some rest and remember we’ve got a dinner reservation at one.”

Harry pecked her on the cheek as he stood up, wrapping his blanket closer around him. “Night, mum.”

“Nighty-night, angel.”

*

When Harry woke the next morning, he didn’t feel right as rain again, but a weight and bene lifted form his chest now that his burden had been shared. And today was a day for family - close family - and he would not let his memories ruin that. He, his mum, Goldie and Sylver would be having lunch at the local restaurant, The Hutch, away from the McQueen owned pub. There would be presents, singing and the typical family embarrassment. Most of all, it would be fun.

He rolled out of bed, put on his nicest shirt and jeans and skipped down the stairs. This would be a good day, he could feel it.

As Harry’s foot touched down in the living room, a party popper went off in his face and confetti rained down around him.

“Surprise!” Yelled Goldie. Around the room more poppers went off. Harry noticed the blue and silver balloons in the corner with a snails, as well as the small pile of presents on the coffee table.

“Happy birthday, little brother.” Said Sylver as he came over to pin a badge to his chest. “I know you’re twenty-one now and you can legally do everything but this is the first one I’m celebrating with you so we went big.”

“Tell me about it.” Goldie rolled her eyes. “Mum’s been having us up all night wrapping your presents like some secret slave labour. Not to mention hiding all them balloons in my bedroom.”

“I had to put them somewhere, darling.” Breda said as she cane over to hug her youngest. “Happy birthday, sweetheart. Now, breakfast first then presents. I’ve made your favourite.”

There was a full English spread out on the counter - tomatoes, mushrooms, beans, sausages, egg and so much toast they could feed a whole country. Mouth watering, Harry sat himself down and tucked in, barely keeping from moaning obscenely at how perfectly everything was cooked.

He thanked his mum and his sentiment was echoed by Goldie and Sylver as they dug in, but the rest of the meal was taken in silence. All the better to appreciate what was in front of you. It wasn’t often that mum splashed out and spent the morning slaving away in the kitchen. She may have been a domestic goddess but this was a birthday-Easter-anniversary treat.

As the morning wore on and the little family was forced to put down their cutlery lest their stomachs burst open, more McQueens came down and made the most of Breda’s cooking. They all remembered it was Harry’s birthday, not that they could forget what with the balloons and presents and banners stuck up on the walls, but their well-wishes and hugs still warmed his heart.

“Ready for presents yet?” Sylver asked, and Harry couldn’t contain his child-like grin. Harry couldn’t name a person alive who didn’t like receiving presents, and he most definitely couldn’t pretend to be humble or gracious. Presents were presents and they were the best part of birthdays.

They sat around the living room, with even Sally and Myra turning in there seats to watch as present after present was placed in Harry’s lap for him to rip open. Of course he wasn’t a dick about it - he still thanked everyone sincerely for his gifts, and his smile for each one was genuine. Goldie bought him some of the wildest and brightest shirts he had ever laid his eyes on; one seemed to be made of entirely of gold glitter, that somehow didn’t shed; one was a shimmering aquamarine, another was the traditional rainbow, to add to his collection of rainbow themed clothing. And they were all the perfect size, and he promised to pick one to wear to dinner later. Sylver had bought him a pint glass, engraved with their family tree, as well as a handmade wooden coaster to match. They were so intricate and detailed that Harry couldn’t imagine all the time and money he had put into them.

“Sylver! You shouldn’t have.”

His brother shook his head and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “No, I should have done more. We’ve never actually celebrated a birthday together, at least not properly. I have thirteen years’ worth of birthdays to catch up on, which means I’m going to be spoiling my little brother - and my little sister when her birthday comes round.” Sylver added when Goldie made an affronted noise. “And don’t think Christmas is going to be any different, for any of you.”

Harry carefully put the glass and coaster down, knowing he’d be scared to hold them too tightly for a while they were so valuable. They moved on to the presents from the rest of the family. Nana had knitted him a set of gloves, a hat and a scarf, claiming he’ll need them after a boiling hot Dubai summer. Myra and Sally had clubbed together to get him a copy of ‘Far From The Madding Crowd’ and a cow onesie. Cleo got him a book of French words and phrases. And his mum had gotten him the bits and pieces he’d mentioned over the past year: a thick blanket, some nice pens, and the video game he’d been banging on about over summer. It was a good year, and he could think of no reason to be anything but happy.

His mum refused his help in clearing up breakfast, and Sylver set up the video game while Harry teased him about being a granddad who’s never played Fifa before. It felt like only half an hour that Harry and Sylver were immersed in the game, laughing and joking with each other and threatening to kill each other’s characters for minor insults, when Breda pressed START and jolted them out of their little world. It had been three hours and they ere going to be late for their dinner reservation at this rate.

A little sheepish, but not enough to keep them for going on the game when they got back home, the boys put on their coats and headed out with the rest of the family for a dinner that was guaranteed to be filled with McQueen shenanigans. Even as they were walking to the restaurant, Nana in her thick leopard print coat and Myra wearing an ensemble from five different decades, Goldie “borrowed” something shiny from someone’s washing line and Myra stopped to pick up a dead bug that she could use to scam restaurants - probably the very one they were going to. It would be fun.


	5. The Hutch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter, though the McQueens get up to some shenanigans. I wasn't going to post this originally, but I thought we might as well get to some actual plot related stuff. Enjoy xx

The Hutch was a small restaurant in the middle of the village. It was nothing special or fancy, though the owner seemed to think so based on how much of the menu wasn’t in English. And the man who took them to their table, who introduced himself as Tony, the very pretentious owner, preened like a peacock and made every effort to act like he had four Michelin stars.

They were seated and quickly ordered their drinks, and Harry tried to hide his surprise when Myra ordered a bread basket for the table. He thanked her when she said it was birthday so it was deserved. Then Harry spent a considerable amount of time trying to decipher the menu. He looked over to Sylver and saw that his big brother had a similarly bemused expression on his face. Harry nudged Cleo, who sat to his left.

“What’s good? I think I’ve forgotten how to read.”

Cleo laughed. “Tony can be a bit fancy for our tastes.” She leaned over his menu and pointed to something in the middle. “Fish and chips.” She moved her finger. “Steak and salad. Up to you.”

“Fish and chips it is. I’d rather not gamble with anything fancier.”

Harry noticed Cleo was hesitating about what to have, and he was suddenly reminded that she had her own issues about food. He hoped she’d be able to enjoy the dinner as much as the rest of them. When she glanced up at him questioningly, he smiled broadly at her and the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease slightly.

“I’ll have the fish and chips, too.” She declared.

The rets of the table came to there own decisions about what to order, even going to far as to suggest starters. Harry declined getting one, and Cleo and Breda followed. Despite it being lunchtime the food came promptly, though Harry supposed it was a Wednesday and not a Saturday.

The lunch passed without spectacle until the McQueen shenanigans began full force.

“Oh, Tony!” Nana cried, hand over her heart as she looked down at her plate. “I cannot possibly eat this. I’d die!” She looked like a 1950s actress, swooning on her fainting couch; all she needed was a sheer dressing gown and a handsome gentleman at her arm and she’d fit the picture. Harry supposed Tony would have to do.

Harry fought down his smirk, but it was hard when he looked around the table and the rest of the family were all biting their lips or hiding grins behind their hands. Cleo disguised a laugh as a cough and brought her napkin up to cover the furious red of her cheeks as Nana started making weird swooning noises.

Tony came over, the downturn of his mouth hinting that he already knew what Nana was playing at, but he maintained his professional facade in front of his customers. “I’m sorry to hear that, Marlena, what can I do to fix it?” He asked in a sickly sweet voice.

“Oh, Tone, it just there appears to be something floating in my soup!” She moaned, loud enough for nearby heads to turn. This time Nana brought her hand to her forehead like she was about to faint, and from thin air she cracked open a fan and began to violently flutter it about her face.

“There’s what?” Tony cried, leaning over to inspect the soup. He grabbed the spoon and stirred the pale, milky contents and soon enough a thick black blob clung to the spoon.

“That’s disgusting, Tony! What kind of restaurant are you running here?And I swear some of those breadsticks were stale!” Shouted Myra, gesturing to the empty breadbasket in the middle of the table. “And the pop is flat!” She took a swig of Cleo’s drink and declared, “Look! No bubbles!”

But Tony was still staring at the contaminated soup, poking at what Harry knew to be some knotted hair from Cleo’s hairbrush. He looked so bemused, as if wondering if the McQueen women were somehow telling the truth.

“I’m so sorry.” He finally managed. “I’ll get you another soup on the house.”

Nana heaved a great sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you, Tony. You really are a gent.”

Tony took away the soup and Nana tucked away her fan into goodness knows where she kept the thing. Once the man was out of sight, a little smirk slid onto her lips. It seemed Tony hadn’t noticed that half the soup had been eaten before the hair had been “found”.

Harry had missed these shenanigans while he was away and it truly felt like he was home now.

He looked to his side, where his mum was looking slightly disproving. She was a good woman, but unlike Cleo, who may have disapproved of the family lawlessness but ultimately enjoyed it, she often couldn’t condone what they did. It seems today might be that day.

“Mum? You alright?” Harry asks her quietly, while the others discuss how to get a free bottle of Prosecco thrown in with their meal. “I know you don’t approve.”

His mum turned to him, a smile falling naturally on her face, and she leaned in conspiratorially. “Oh, angel. I don’t like it when things hurt people, and the people who run this place are lovely, most of the time, but this is harmless enough. I don’t agree with going against God’s will, but the law I’m more flexible with.”

Harry leaned back, shocked. “You agree with breaking the law?” He didn’t think his mum had ever shoplifted or ripped someone off like ever other McQueen.

“No, not breaking the law! I am a McQueen after all, and we McQueens have a knack for bending the rules. Upholding God and His will is more important than whether or not we get a few free meals here and there. Plus, it is your birthday.”

“You surprise me, mum.” Maybe he just hadn’t seen that side of his mum before when he was looking at her with younger eyes. Most likely she wanted him to grow up with at least one role model who never seemed to break the law. But now that he was old enough to be less impressionable she could show off her McQueen side.

“Just don’t forget to let God know what you’ve done and you’ll be right as rain.” Harry chuckled, now that sounded like the mum he knew. 

Harry and his mum sat back as Tony brought out the new soup for Nana. “Here you are, Marlena. Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

“Actually, Tony, there is.” Said Sylver. “It’s my brother, Harry’s, twenty first birthday today and we wanted to do something special. You wouldn’t happen to have some nice bottles of Prosecco hanging around, would you?”

Tony’s eyes landed on Harry, and something in them turned sad and nostalgic. His gaze drifted down to the massive badge pinned to Harry’s shimmering blue shirt and he cleared this throat. “Of course. My eldest would be about your age now. I’ll get you a couple of bottles, on the house.”

“Get in, Tony!” Exclaimed Goldie.

Tony quickly dashed to the bar and returned with three bottles of Prosecco - and it wasn’t bottom shelf stuff, either - for the table. He only lingered long enough for one last loin at Harry and a minutes happy birthday before he was back in the kitchen.

As the girls cracked open the bottles, tearing the foil and popping the corks, Harry couldn’t get Tony’s look out of his mind.

“What was that Tony said about his eldest?” He asked Myra. From what his mum had told him in passing, Tony only had three children and they were only six.

Myra looked confused for a minute before realised cleared away the fog from her mind. “Oh, yeah. It was ages ago now, but when he was dating our Jacqui his old bird rocked up and said he had a kid she’d never told him about. I don’t remember what happened exactly but he never did get to meet the kid - mum and baby dropped off the face of the earth and no one’s heard from them since. Presumed dead, probably. Sad story, I know, but it did get us these bottles, so all’s well that ends well and all that.”

Myra passed Harry a glass of the bubbly and Harry decided to follow her lead. He pushed the thought of Tony’s long lost kid out of his mind and focused on the free alcohol and the fact that today was his birthday. If his family had their way, it wouldn’t be the last freebie of the day.

Dinner passed in raucous laughter as the McQueen’s got drunker and drunker. Nana was flirting with one of the older gentlemen at the next table over. Harry’s mum even got slightly tipsy and was leaning on Sylver’s shoulder to stay upright even as she was sat down. Myra and Sally were packing on the PDA and Harry noticed the flamboyant waiter was looking rather put off by all their groping.

As the desserts were cleared away, Harry kindly asked Tony if he could fetch the check. His own words were slightly looser than when he was sober, but, like his mother, he wasn’t much of a drinker - Sylver was looking rather spaced out and Harry supposed prison was a great AA scheme.

“I’ll be right over.” Tony replied stiffly. He may have been kind enough to give them free Prosecco but he was regretting it now. Nana had started unbuttoning her blouse.

Harry shared a look with Cleo before she attempted to wrangle Nana away from stripping in public place.

“Tony’s going to get the check, so why don’t we all get our stuff together ready to go.” Harry prompted the table.

Tony returned, a little silver tray with a long slip of paper balanced on top in hand, and he was a metre or so from the table when Goldie pushed her chair back from the table and straight into the back of the other waiter.

The waiter was knocked off balance, his arms lifting to compensate but the tray in his hands, ladened with food and drinks, went up too. It tipped and it all fell onto the McQueen table. Four glasses of Coke, two baskets of bread and a small bowl of soup cascaded over the family - no one escaped the debris - but Goldie and Sylver got the worst of it.

Goldie screamed, long and loud, heard by dogs a mile away. “My weave!”

As Harry wipes the soup from his eyes and knocked the breadstick from his hair, he heard the beginning of another argument between his family and Tony. The man was trying to blame Goldie for not looking behind her and that she did it on purpose, but Goldie claimed she shouldn’t have to because “my eyes are at the front not the back!”

But with way Myra was making a scene, dragging in the other customers and bringing up Harry’s birthday, it was no surprise that they got the entire meal free.

As they were leaving, Goldie complaining all the way home, Breda took Harry’s arm and pulled him close. “I would have paid for the dinner, you know. Even if they hadn’t got freebies. It’s your birthday and if you can’t splash out on birthdays then when can you?”

“I know, mum. And I appreciate it. But what’s a McQueen day out, or birthday, without drama and free food? But thank you. I’ve had a great day.”

“Well that’s alright then. Happy birthday, Harry.”


	6. Sixth Time's the Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: some nice brotherly fluff, a typical McQueen wedding and slight references to self-harm but nothing graphic. If you remember Mercedes' wedding, then you already know the answer to this cliff-hanger.

The morning of Mercedes’ wedding found Harry desperately trying to avoid the many McQueen women frantically racing about the house with rollers in their hair and make up spilled out over every available surface. It was mania only made worse when Myra received the call that the priest wouldn’t be able to perform the ceremony. So he determined to get out as soon as possible, grateful that he took half as long to get ready as his cousins.

His mum had already gone over to the pub to help Max and Bobby into their suits and Sylver was putting the finishing touches to Mercedes’ wedding present to Russ in his workshop. Thinking he would be of most help with the latter, he headed off to the garage.

When he arrived, Sylver was painting on the final varnish on the little bench, looking to all the world like a dedicated cousin doing his bit for the happy couple. But as Harry took a moment to watch his brother, he saw the defeated slope of his shoulders and the morose and somber expression on his face. Harry may not be as intimately familiar with Sylver’s expressions the way he is with his mum, sister and nephews, but it would be obvious to anyone willing to give the man more than a cursory glance that he was heartbroken.

“Sylver?” Harry interrupted tentatively when he saw his brother wipe at his cheeks. What good would he be if he let him wallow. “Do you need any help?”

Sylver shook himself, pasting on a smile, and stood to his full height. “I think I’m finished. And just in time, too. They’ll love it.” He sounded cheerful enough but he kept his eyes firmly on the engraving: “Mercedes & Russ”.

“I’m sure they will. Mind if I camp here until we’re ready to go to the church - it’s chaos at the house and the priest dropped out. Last I heard Mercy was on the warpath.” Harry tried to end on a laugh, but his brother still wasn’t looking at him and it was starting to get awkward.

Sylver was putting his tools away, brushing wood shavings from his worktop and Harry just knew he was keeping himself busy so that Harry wouldn’t see the redness of his eyes.

“Brother?” Harry called, taking a deep breath and steeling himself. A big conversation like this required bravery. “I know we’ve never really had heart-to-hearts before, what with prison and the age gap between us, but we can have one now. I don’t think I was even born when you and Mercedes got together but I know it wasn’t just two tweens fumbling around or some stupid summer fling. At least not for you.” Sylver stopped straightening the spanners in his toolkit. He lifted his head and turned to face his brother. “She was your first love, and the next eighteen years of your life were spent in an all-male prison - and unlike me, you aren’t gay. You still love her. I could tell you to get out there and see what else the world has to offer instead of focusing on the only woman you’ve known, but I know you and I know that look. You’re head over heels and nothing’s going to change that. But I’m here if you want to talk or just sit in brooding, manly silence.”

All was quiet in the workshop. The two brothers locked eyes and a conversation without words passed between them until they came to an understanding. Harry would look back on this moment and see it as the moment he and Sylver truly became brothers.

“You’re a very smart kid, Harry. Far smarter than people give you credit.”

“I’m not just a pretty face.”

“Definitely not. You’re right. I love Mercedes. I don’t think I could look at another woman without thinking of her. But she loves Russ and they’re getting married today. So there’s nothing I can do without making her unhappy.”

Harry moves over to stand by Sylver’s side, leaning against the workbench. “She’s made her choice, it’s not you and you’re respecting that like the gentleman mother raised, but that doesn’t mean you have to be happy about it. You’re allowed to be sad and you’re allowed to cry. Toxic masculinity be damned - you’ve had your heart broken. You don’t have to be happy, you don’t even have to be fine —“

“I just don’t get why she would chose him!” Sylver interrupted, clenching his fists. “Sure they have history and he’s loaded and he says he loves her fiery temper - but the man barely trusts her! He accuses her of sleeping with other people, he dragged you from your bed and threw you out into the street, and she forgives him the very next day because he gave her some fancy necklace! Why would she want to be with him?”

Harry sighed. He had to agree with everything his brother said. Trust is essential to a relationship and theirs has a deficit of it. Not to mention how much it had hurt him to see Mercedes cuddled up with Russ the day after his attack, as if her anger and promises had meant nothing, as if he had meant nothing. Harry couldn’t imagine being with someone who could be so cruel to his own family.

“I’ve never been in love, but from what I’ve seen, love is the cruelest force on earth.”

Sylver took a deep breath. Then another. And another. Until finally his anger had dissipated and he seemed a deflated version of himself. “How very profound.” Said Sylver. “I’m going to go to that wedding but as a cousin who wants nothing but the best for our Mercy and if that’s not me then so be it. But after, we’re skipping the reception and drinking my sorrows away back home.”

Harry grins, and knocks shoulders with him. “Sounds like a plan. ‘Sides no one thought to invite any good looking gays for me to hook up with, so I’ve not got plans.”

“You’ll find your Prince Charming eventually, little brother. Let’s just hope your not as unlucky in love as your big siblings.”

Perhaps it’s a McQueen curse to have failed romances - though maybe it would avoid him as an adopted McQueen - but Harry wasn’t holding out hope for anything earth shattering just yet. He’s only twenty one after all, plenty of time yet.

Sylver checked his watch “It’s almost one, we should head to the church. Don’t want the mother of the bride to kill us for being late.”

“Don’t want mother killing us for being late either.” Harry joked. Sylver put his shirt and suit jacket back on and they left the garage, being sure to lock up after themselves.

*

The two brothers arrived at the church, and immediately found their mother and sister, seemingly after an intense conversation of the pained looks on their faces were anything to go by.

“Is everything okay?” Sylver asked as they all embraced. “Did you manage to find a replacement priest?”

Goldie forced a smile. “Yeah, we sorted it. Joel’s filling in.”

“Is Cleo going to be okay with that after what happened?” Said Harry. He was sure Cleo would push past any negative emotions for Mercedes’ sake, she was just that kind of selfless angel, but she shouldn’t have to.

“It was her idea actually. She totally saved the day.”

Harry looked to his side as he noticed mum still hadn’t said a word. She looked she’ll shocked.

“Mum? You okay?”

She shook herself out of her reverie and beamed up at him. “Oh, of course, I’m fine. Just wondered if I’d left the oven on.” It was then that she spotted something over his shoulder and said urgently, “I’ve just remembered something I have to do - I’ll be back by the time we go in.” She darted off without a second glance. Harry looked after her but she had headed into the stream of wedding guests starting to arrive.

Harry turned back to his siblings, “anyone know what that was about?”

They shrugged. Perhaps she was catching up with mum a little; she had been prone to some ditzy and quirky moments from time to time. It was easy to brush off at least until the crowds parted and Harry caught a glimpse of his mum kissing someone - a very male someone. 

It wasn’t that he was opposed to his mum getting out there and finding someone to spend the rest of her life with - in fact, he had, once or twice, tried to set her up on dating apps though she had vehemently refused his matchmaking attempts. But as he gawked at them and saw the lovesick smiles and cow eyes in both their faces, the way his mum seemed to light up inside, it was clear that this wasn’t a new development. No one, especially not Breda, publicly kissed someone they weren’t seriously dating. If his mum was dating someone, and had clearly been dating for a while, how could she not tell him?

Even worse, a quick glace at his siblings told him they already knew about their mums new fella and they seemed to be in the dark that Harry was in the dark. Harry stood speechless, wracking his brain for a logical explanation. Why would mum tell Goldie and Sylver but not him?

Sylver excused himself to head over to Prince and to find his seat, and Goldie slipper away quietly, but Harry couldn’t keep his eyes off his mum. Stood, cosy and comfortable with her maybe boyfriend, she was unaware of the turmoil in Harry’s head.

Did she not trust him? Did she think he’d be jealous or angry? Or did she not care enough to let him in on this part of he life? He understood that knowing about your mums dating life might be awkward to some but he would at least want to know that she was seeing someone.

Harry’s staring must have finally burnt holes in their backs as they turned to look at him. Breda’s eues widened comically and she tried to seat jack out of sight as if that would salvage the situation, more proof of how little she trusts her son.

She starts to run towards him just as Joel, their priest for today, calls the stragglers inside the church for the ceremony. Harry can’t face this right now. There isn’t any time and this won’t be short conversation, nor will it be a calm one. He sought sanctuary in the pews and refused to look at his mum as she took a seat a few rows behind him and Sylver. Harry noticed the boyfriend slipping in next to her and quickly turned away. 

“You alright, Harry? You’re shaking.” Comments Sylver. Suddenly Harry is grateful that Sylver knows nothing of his personal history because if it was anyone else they would be checking his hands. But Harry won’t do it, because there’s a reasonable explanation at the end of this, and after the wedding he and his mum can talk it out like adults.

So he chuckled in response, “I should be asking you that, mate.”

Russ stood at the altar, Joel in front of him and Max and Bobby behind, as Myra and Mercedes walked down the aisle, Goldie and Cleo trailing behind. Harry had to give it Russ and Mercy, they planned a beautiful wedding. From the arches of flowers to the cherry blossom trees, the bridesmaids dresses to the wedding dress, it was probably the most beautiful McQueen wedding in history. Harry could only hope that when he got married, sometime in the distant but not far-off future, that his wedding would be as tasteful and romantic as this. For a moment, as he watched Mercedes and Russ exchange vows and rings (and some hissed remarks to the priest?) Harry could escape the complications of the rest of the world and simply watch two people who love each other cement that love. 

That was until Mercedes punched Joel and accused him of getting Goldie pregnant and forcing her to get an abortion. Then all hell broke loose. Harry couldn’t restrain Prince from attacking Joel but he could keep Sylver in his seat. If his brother even thought of brawling he’d be back in prison. And he’s be damned if he let that happen, tempted as he was himself to defend his sister's honour.

He never would have thought Joel would cheat on Cleo, or that Goldie, who was raised by the same church-going, devoir Catholic mother as him, would ever sleep with a man of the cloth. It was improbable, if not impossible. Although, it wouldn’t be the first time McQueens have slept with their cousin, or even siblings’ , partner.

“Wait!” Shouted Myra from her seat on the front row. She gripped the pews like her life depended on it but her face was slack, shell-shocked. “He is... he’s telling the truth.” Everyone turned to Myra. “He’s not the one that got Goldie pregnant. It was Russ.”


End file.
